


Harlequinade

by plingo_kat



Category: Actor RPF
Genre: I'm going to hell and I don't care, M/M, conveniently ignoring that James is married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-27
Updated: 2011-07-27
Packaged: 2017-10-21 19:45:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/229048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plingo_kat/pseuds/plingo_kat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“But,” says James. “<em>A fake sex tape.</em>”</p><p>(Translation to Mandarin<a href="http://kwj520520.lofter.com/post/1de9fe20_bdaca1f">here</a>.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Harlequinade

Michael gets the text at ten o’clock on Sunday night, which is of course typical, because James _never fucking sleeps_. Even when they have shooting the next morning. He almost debates ignoring it but then James will whine at him for the next three days, so he presses the inbox button.

“This better not be bullshit,” he mutters.

It’s short and utterly mysterious.

_My trailer. NOW. Best idea ever._

_Wat?_ Michael types back.

_JUST COME._

James opens the door almost before the second knock, bouncing up and down. His eyes are wide and manic.

“Michael!” he says. “I’ve had the _best_ idea. The most hilarious. The best. I need your help.”

“No,” says Michael, who is smart enough to realize that nothing James can think of when he’s like this will be at all positive for his reputation or continued good health. “Absolutely not. Go to sleep, we have to be up at six tomorrow.”

“But,” says James. “ _A fake sex tape._ ”

 

Somehow Michael ends up inside James’ trailer drinking beer, sprawled on the couch while James stands behind the kitchen counter trying to balance his camera phone so that it’ll point where he wants it to go.

“Wave your arm,” James says.

“This is insane,” Michael says, who wants it to be known that he is totally and violently opposed to everything that comes out of James’ mouth. The Vespa incident just proves how right he is. He waves his arm.

“Yes, but hilarious,” James shoots back. “Besides, I feel silly. Don’t you feel silly? I want to do something silly. We could put it in the bloopers, make it a real love story. The fans would go crazy.”

“Oh, I see,” says Michael. “You’re doing this for the _fans_. You know, I think your obsession with driving them crazy is creepy.”

“It’s not dark enough,” James mutters, clearly not listening. Or pretending not to listen, which is much more likely. “Hey, do you know how to make the video darker?”

“Shine a light next to it,” Michael suggests, knocking back the last of his can. It’s his third and he’s beginning to feel it, a pleasant warmth spreading through his stomach. “Contrast, you know.”

“Thanks.”

It takes ten more minutes and a lot more arm-waving, but eventually James is satisfied. He grabs the fourth beer out of Michael’s hand (“Hey!”) and drains it (“You could have just gotten your own.”) and makes a perfect overhand throw into the trash can.

“Come on, up.”

Michael sighs but grips James’ offered hand, startled when the other man pulls him close and wraps an arm around his waist.

“What--”

“Did you or did you not get the part about a fake sex tape,” James hisses into his neck, then undulates with a slow roll of his hips and makes a really overdone moaning sound.

“That’s not even believable,” Michael hisses back, and bends his head down like he’s kissing and wraps an arm around James’ shoulders. He’s not about to be outdone.

James leans into it, then back with a gasp like he’s breaking for air.

“You know what we need?”

“Please stop talking.”

“Noises. You know, the--” and he brings his hand up to his mouth, hiding it by pressing his right side all along Michael's, and begins to kiss his fingers with loud wet sounds. Michael shakes with laughter.

“You’re very good at that,” he whispers, strained. James grins up at him, teeth and eyes bright in his face.

“Turn around,” James whispers back. “And say something. Preferably something flattering. Begging, maybe.”

“Like I’d ever beg,” Michael retorts. He turns anyway though, with a fake groan of his own, and spares some thought as to why he’s following James’ orders at all, why he’s consented to this _ridiculous_ scheme. All he can come up with and that he’s obviously insane.

Also, James’ puppy-dog eyes. It’s kind of unbelievable how effective they are.

“ _Oh_ ,” James moans from behind him, loud and long, and his hands grip Michael’s hips. He has to suppress a jump. “Oh, _jesus_.”

“I hate you,” Michael mutters.

“Shut up, I’m fucking you,” James mutters back.

“What? I’m taller, I should be fucking you!”

“Oh, so you think you can be on top just because you’re taller?” James pushes, almost knocking Michael over. “You know you’re perpetuating the stereotype that -- can you just, you know, keep doing that? Or bend over, here, hold onto the side of the couch -- the stereotype of, um, smaller people being weaker and shit. Stereotypes, anyway.”

“Fuck you,” Michael says, and tries to twist out of James’ hold, but the Scottish fucker must have done something because he can’t and then a hand is pushing between his shoulder blades and scrunching up his t-shirt and forcing him down. Michael considers hooking a foot around James’ leg and taking them both down, but the coffee table is _right there_ at that’s a little too hazardous for his taste.

James ends up draped over him, just like after really long takes when the both of them are tired and James shows that he’s a lazy bastard with no concept of personal space. What’s different about this time is that he’s making harsh “uh, uh” noises that honestly Michael finds a little too realistic.

The first slapping sound makes him jump, the corresponding push of James’ arm against the outside of his thigh a belated clue; James is slapping his own arm to make the flesh sounds, and that’s it for Michael. He leans his head down onto the arm of the couch and shakes with suppressed laughter and can’t stop, until he’s just guffawing, letting out loud whoops between hiccuping breaths. James joins in after a few seconds and they collapse on the couch almost in tears, clutching each other.

“The, the--” Michael makes a kissing noise when they’re almost composed and sets them off again.

“And the slap!” James hits his arm again, red mark coming up on pale skin, and Michael nearly chokes.

“I can’t believe--fuck you, I would totally be on top.”

“No, no way, I am way toppier than you are. You wear fedoras. Regularly.”

“I can’t believe we’re arguing about this,” Michael says. He slouches a little more, sticks his feet out. He feels punch-drunk, everything bright and hilarious. James, he reflects, has that effect.

“It’s important,” James insists. It suddenly occurs to Michael to ask exactly how many beers James had before texting him to come over.

“Five,” James answers promptly. Michael rolls his eyes. Of course.

“Never mind that.” James sits up and leans over to poke at Michael’s chest. “I would so be on top.”

“Your logic astounds me,” Michael says. “Hey, what--no, stop that!”

James in typical James manner, decides that what he can’t win by playing fair he can by cheating. He’s poking Michael repeatedly in the ribs, moving to straddle him when Michael tries to squirm away.

“I--I will punch you, swear to god, fuck, stop that, jesus!” Michael can’t work up enough strength to push James off without hurting him, still not fully recovered from their laughing fit.

“Seriously, I’ll fucking knee you in the balls, fuck, s-stop!”

“Admit my obvious superiority and toppiness, Fassbender.” James’ imperious manner is ruined by his tousled hair and red cheeks. “And-or beg for mercy, that will work too.”

“You are such a brat,” Michael manages, and finally gets his arms in enough to protect his vulnerable bits. He flips them onto the floor, pinning James under him with his larger body mass. “I don’t know how you manage to act like a responsible adult on set.”

“I’m amazing,” James says, wriggling. Michael tightens his hold. “Oof. Get off, you’re heavy.”

“Oh, no,” says Michael. “This is payback.” He blows in James’ ear, who then jerks back with what Michael will only ever classify as a squeal.

“I'll never surrender!” James laughs. He tries to slide sideways out of Michael’s hold, but Michael presses his hips more firmly down and anchors his knees on the floor.

“Who’s topping now, James?” He purrs, totally not magnanimous in victory. He is really fucking smug, and deservedly so.

“Fuck you, Michael,” says James, and twists his neck so he can look up at him from the corner of his eye. He’s flushed, hair falling into his eyes, mouth open and red. Michael blinks.

“Um,” he says, suddenly devoid of a comeback.

James arches and somehow manages to prop himself up on one arm. His thigh is wedged between Michael’s legs.

“What?”

Michael clenches his jaw. What a fucking time for his... _appreciation_ for James to flare up. Most of the time he just channels it into being really intensely (murderously) sexy as Magneto and being obviously in lust with Charles on screen, ignoring it otherwise; the other man is unavailable anyways. But now it’s dark and they’re alone and James has been making sex noises (albeit fairly ludicrous ones) and _Michael is straddling a pinned James on the floor_ and it’s just a bit much, okay.

“Nothing,” Michael says, letting James free. He tries not to make it too obvious he’s disengaging as fast as possible, standing and running a hand through his hair. James doesn’t get up though, just turns over onto his back and stares up at Michael with dark eyes. Jesus.

“No, really, what?” He bends his knees and Michael can’t help the quick glance at the V of his jeans and shit, James saw that, didn’t he. _Shit._

“What?”

Fuck.

“ _Really?_ ”

“Let’s pretend the last five minutes never happened,” Michael offers. He doesn’t look at James, just takes a step back and heads for the door. Before he can reach it though, James catches his arm and turns him around.

The man is intense, can be intimidating, no matter his short stature. Michael barely notices himself swiping his tongue along his lower lip as he watches James’ eyes narrow, nostrils flaring.

“Oh,” James says, revelatory, and pushes Michael up against the wall.

The first few seconds Michael is stunned enough that he doesn’t react. Then James nips sharply at his lower lip and his jaw drops in a groan so much more real than the one he uttered some half hour earlier, legs spreading automatically wider to let James stand between them, narrow hips slotting neatly against his.

“What--” Michael says when James pulls away, until a sharp tug as his hair has him moaning, James’ teeth sinking into his neck and fuck fuck fuck that better not leave a mark or makeup will never let him live it down and god, James’ stubble feels _really fucking good_.

“I’m on top,” James mutters into his skin and _thrusts,_ and any objections Michael was going to voice are lost.

“Ah,” he whimpers pathetically, letting his head fall back to thump against the wall. “Jesus, James, what are you doing.”

“Fucking you, what does it look like,” James says, licking up to suck on his earlobe. Michael pants.

“I--” he starts, before James tightens the hand in his hair and pulls him down for another kiss, tongue stroking deep, in and out, curling cleverly around his his own and licking compulsively around his teeth. Michael has to chase it back into James’ mouth, tasting beer and the faint hint of Chinese takeout and something darker that has to be James himself.

Somehow he finds his arm going around James’ shoulders, the other moving to slide a hand up under James’ shirt. His skin is warm and soft, the hint of a curve in his belly, muscles in his back shifting under the skin as he rocks forward and back. When Michael reaches a nipple James inhales sharply through his nose and bites again, this time on his tongue, and jesus, sucks on the tip. Michael can hear himself moan.

“You’re very vocal,” James notes, breath gusting along Michael’s lips, along his cheeks. He’s got his hands tight on Michael’s upper arms, but now he slides them down, palms stroking over pecs and abs, undoing the button on his jeans.

Michael just proves him right with another sound, high and quickly bitten off as James rubs his knuckles roughly over Michael’s trapped cock. It’s horrifically embarrassing, but what’s worse is that Michael doesn’t even care: he just wants more.

“Christ,” he hisses, hands now kneading James’ ass. He spares a thought for undoing the other man’s jeans -- returning the favor, as it were -- but then clever fingers are worming their way into his underwear and wrapping around his cock and Michael is too busy knocking his head back against the wall and rising up onto his toes and arching forward and pulling James towards him, hard, making James tighten his grip and creating glorious friction and then James is doing this incredible pull-twist movement and rubbing his thumb over the head of his cock and Michael is biting his lip and coming, hips working, soft pained noises escaping from his throat.

When he can see again, blinking black spots out of his vision, James’ pupils are blown, mouth open and red as sin. Michael leans forward to kiss him slowly, languorous and dirty and sated, and when James pulls his hand out to wipe them on Michael’s jeans he grasps James’ wrist and brings wet fingers to his mouth.

“Oh god,” James says, voice like gravel. His accent is thick enough to turn the words into something almost unrecognizable. “Michael, that’s--god.”

Michael raises his eyebrows, rubbing firmly along the bottom of James’ fingers with the flat of his tongue and wriggling to push at the webbing between, leaning forward to swallow him in all the way up to the knuckles. It tastes like bitter and salt, more neutral as time goes on.

“That is positively indecent,” James hisses. He’s rutting against Michael’s hip, alternately moving forward to lick at Michael’s neck and leaning back to look at Michael’s mouth around his fingers, panting.

Michael pulls off with a pop and what he’s sure is an obscene hollowing of his cheeks, grinning when James makes a helpless _wanting_ noise.

“You’ve ruined my pants,” he says, surprised by how wrecked his voice still sounds. He’s starting to feel it too, wetness cooling and chafing as James continues to rub against his thigh, but it’s still good, it’s all good having James lean into him and clutch at his shoulders and moan broken, filthy things into the underside of his jaw.

“Buy another pair,” James mutters. He bites down hard on Michael’s collarbone, and Michael’s cock gives a half-hearted twitch. He can’t hold in the hiss of pain-pleasure either, which just makes James clamp down _harder_.

“Can you--let me--” Michael tangles his hand in James’ hair and pulls him back, guides them both around so that James is the one with his back to the wall now, and he falls liquidly to his knees, still loose and boneless from his orgasm.

James’ mouth opens like he’s surprised, eyes heavy lidded, and when Michael presses his face into the (really, pretty impressive) bulge in his jeans, he makes his hitching sighing noise and comes, entire body undulating in a slow roll, shoulders to toes. Michael has to keep a tight grip on his hips so he doesn’t fall, James’ hand on his shoulder supporting part of his weight.

“...That was quick,” Michael notes after a suitable amount of time has passed, just the barest hint of laughter in his tone.

“Fuck you,” James replies amiably, voice still a bit rough. He clears his throat. “You have no idea what you looked like.”

“Apparently not.” Michael rises, grimacing at the now cold mess in his underwear. He strips off. The two of them have already had sex, what’s a bit of nudity?

Apparently not nothing, the way James is looking at him: hungry, like he would jump Michael again if he could. Michael swallows and takes in the way James watches his throat work.

“Do you have another pair of pants?”

James jerks a little, like he’s been snapped back to reality.

“Oh, right.” He beckons Michael to follow him, walking toward his bedroom and undoing his own jeans on the way. Michael thinks that maybe he should be more freaked out about this, but it’s _James_ ; they were pretty much best friends as soon as they met and if he isn’t acting awkward, Michael refuses to. He follows.

James closes the door after them, which, yeah, is kind of weird.

“James?” Michael says, standing pantsless just inside the threshold.

“So,” James says, looking down. It’s the first time that night he’s acted uncomfortable at all. Michael maybe freaks out a little, internally. “Um. Would you like to... stay?”

It takes a moment for this to sink in.

“The night?” He asks, wary.

“Yes. The night. Um. And you can go in the morning?” James is standing by the bed, looking a little bit lost, fly open and pants stained. He’s probably the most beautiful thing Michael has ever seen.

“Sure,” Michael says as nonchalantly as he can. It probably still comes off as horribly dorky and eager. “If I get to be the big spoon.”

James laughs, tension broken. “Arse,” he says, skimming out of his jeans and shirt. Michael stares and curses biology and refractory rates. “Come on then. In.”

He strips off his own shirt and slides under the covers, throwing an arm over James’ chest, idly tracing patterns over his skin.

“S’nice,” James mutters into his shoulder, clearly already halfway to unconsciousness already. “Wake--” he yawns. “Wake me up before you leave in the morning, ‘kay?”

“As if I’d let you out of making me breakfast,” Michael says into James’ hair, breathing in the scent of him. He scoots just a bit closer, bringing their entire sides into contact with each other, shoulder to thigh.

James slurs something about cereal and burnt toast before his eyes close completely. He starts snoring five minutes later. Michael stares at the ceiling for just a little while longer, listening to the adorable whistling noises James makes and memorizing the feel of this, skin against skin, before dropping off himself.

 

(The next morning, he walks back to his trailer in pants two sizes too small and gets approximately twenty-five million wolf whistles, three people coming up to him asking whether Charles and Erik consummated their relationship last night, and even a couple slaps on the back.

And then somebody finds the fucking camera phone. _That they never turned off_.

Michael hates everything. Everything. Except James.

But actually especially James, because this is all James’ fault.

Whatever.)

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by a conversation on Tumblr about how McAvoy is a trolling troll who trolls and would love the idea of a fake sex tape. I want to say it was all somebody else's idea, but I can't. IT WAS ALL MINE. /sobbing forever
> 
> Also I know nothing about these men except what I see in the very selective interviews I watch (aka the ones with TEH GAY) and so they are probably wildly out of character and. Yeah.


End file.
